


lily of the valley

by LearaBribage



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables (TV 2000), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: And angst?, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bullying, Emotional, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras is an angel, F/M, Historical Figures, Historical References, Holocaust, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Era, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, a reaction to the bs that is historical revisionism, angel x mortal, inspired after that painting called "Romantic Encounter" by Mihaly von Zichy, makeout mayhem, that is rampant these days, you want soft?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 11:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19886860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearaBribage/pseuds/LearaBribage
Summary: 1960s. A rather vulnerable time, most especially for Éponine. An orphan struggling to find herself in post-war France, she is suddenly visited by an angel who promises that she will find peace and justice for her family. Whether she believes it or not, her perspective about the world is about to change.If only it was that easy.





	lily of the valley

* * *

_My beloved is mine..._

* * *

“I am dead.” 

A wave of fear flooded throughout her body, and she fell, sinking to the floor with her knees as a great white light engulfed her vision. She shivered, in spite of the warmth of the breeze that entered the room through her window. Covering her eyes, she could not explain the tears that suddenly wet her pale cheeks. 

“I am dead,” she repeated, caught in the tremor of what she could not understand. The terror would not leave her heart. More so, when this creature of a thousand lights spoke. The air seemed to shudder with her against the thunder of its voice. 

“Please, ease your fears, Éponine. You are not dead. Your prayer is heard, and you shall see justice for your family. And not too long now, you shall find peace once again.” 

She removed her hands from her face, but did not open her eyes. She feared she would be blind from the power of the light before her. Her hands balled into fists against the folds of her nightdress. 

“Forgive my doubts,” Éponine replied, ghost-soft and furtive. “But how do I know what you speak of is true? I am an orphan now, and have nothing to speak of. War has taken all of it — my family, my inheritance, my passions. How should I even know if you truly are an angel, and not merely a phantasm of my dreams?” 

A sudden, loud sob tore out of her chest in spite of herself. 

“How do I know if you are real? How do I know that I am not yet dead? For years I have sat by this window, and every night, I sang and prayed to a God that only sent you now. Why now, and not before? Why now when my heart is dead, and I walk the earth like a corpse that cannot find peace?” 

All this she said with her eyes still closed as she embraced herself, all shivering limbs and wraith-angry sobs. She found that the angel gave her no answer as the brilliant light before her started to dim a little. Brows furrowing, she slowly opened her eyes. 

The floor of her room was not as harshly radiant as it was before, this she could ascertain by her eyes no longer hurting. Blinking slowly, she gradually raised her head and found only the moon and the stars above her. Her mouth thinned, the desire to speak to the angel burning within her system. She looked around.

Below her window, it was still the same old houses facing the orphanage of Monsieur Fauchelevent. The houses that were painted in their dull red, oranges, and browns, the houses that she used to take for granted when her family passed by on the way to the market, the houses that she scorned before now turned solace have remained, stark vestiges of her childhood. 

She recalled that their neighbour, Mabeuf, used to have a bed of roses before the war. But the old soldier, just like her family, was taken by the war, and having no kin to his name, nothing was left of his flowers. And tonight, all the houses were all ash-grey and coal-black, the glow of the lamps burning too low to illuminate the streets from succumbing into full darkness. 

Éponine blinked a tear, drawing a long breath. 

“ _Please_ , forgive my doubts again, angel,” she implored, closing her eyes and raising her hands to the starlit sky. “Forgive my anger, my heart is a jostle of wave after wave of sorrow. The years have made my tongue bitter at the sound of good cheer. Please forgive me, angel.” 

Not too long after, her ears picked up on a rustle of wings and warmth on her fingers. Her lashes flickering, a soft touch made her fingers tingle. “Is that you, angel?” 

“I am Enjolras, here before you in the presence of God to bring you His glad tidings,” the angel said sotto voce. 

Her eyes still closed, she clasped its hands gently. “I am truly sorry, Enjolras.” 

“There will be nothing to forgive if your actions bring truth to your words,” it assured, its grasp as tender as hers. “You may open your eyes, Éponine. I have come to a countenance that shall not harm you.” 

She did as the angel said cautiously, and when her eyes met its form, a soft gasp escaped her lips. 

The angel had chosen to appear in a masculine way. The crown of his head was a riot of fair curls that brought softness to the sharpness of his jawline. His hooded eyes were the colour of the sky, the blues outweighing the silver in it, and his mouth was full and set on a thin line. Garbed with a coat of grey, his tall stature did not frighten her, yet all of this were out-marvelled by the span of his nearly translucent wings that emitted a soft glow as it gently beat against the wind. 

Éponine’s furrowed brows spurred Enjolras to explain, “I ascertained this as the most comfortable visage of angels, according to your people.” 

Averting her eyes, she took her hands from it… _him_. “Thank you.”

“Éponine, I need you to understand something,” he neared her window as she looked up at him. “It is often the norm for your kind to be punished with certain afflictions at any impression of doubt.” 

She nodded, her hands balling into fists again. “I’m familiar with it, but for what it's worth, I am truly sorry, angel.” She raised her chin slightly. “What shall become of me?” 

Enjolras shook his head. “As I said, there will be nothing to forgive because you asked forgiveness. What you did, others did not do, and so an affliction fell on them. But I need you to prove that you will hold these glad tidings in full conscience.” 

She released a sigh of relief. “Then how should I see justice for my family, Enjolras?” 

He raised his hand above her forehead and closed his eyes. Éponine followed, and as he spoke, a certain calmness flooded her being. 

“Continue as you do in the orphanage of the Monsieur Fauchelevent. Help your fellow orphans and those younger have light in their lives. Teach them as your mother has taught you. Encourage them as your father has shown you to be brave. Share laughter with them as your siblings did for each other… once upon a time.

“The orphanage is blessed, and so shall you too be. Because blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. This, you shall see, will usher hope and security in your community. And not too long after, the enemies of your people will fall in spades, and peace shall rest in your heart.” 

She opened her eyes as he grasped her hands. “This, Éponine, is the good news of the Lord. In His Name, I shall help you seek peace.” 

Lowering her head in reverence, she wept freely. 

“Thank you, angel.” 

* * *

“I am alive.” 

She removed her blankets and strode towards her open window. _Daylight_. The sun circled the sky, and the streets below were, once again, rife with life. Her eyes followed the Fauchelevent’s saloon car, a four-door Renault Frégate, as it waded through traffic. From afar, it looked like a great white horse amongst a field of asphalt grey. Éponine then remembered that today was Wednesday, when the Monsieur brought weekly groceries for the orphanage. 

She took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders. 

There is no sign of the angel Enjolras anywhere, it appears, but there is a white rose resting by the stool. She held it, feeling the veins of the petals and the silkiness of it that was cool to the touch. She brought it to her nose, and sure enough, it smelled of fresh grass and rain. 

A small fond curl found its way to her lips. She knows what she should do, and should have little trouble with it for the meantime. She wonders what sort of occurrence should call for his presence, but she figured he’d arrive if something beyond her control arises. 

Later in the day, Éponine found herself carrying little Gilen and Elaina upon her lap. The two have been squabbling endlessly over sharing colour palettes during their art class. 

Her tone firm, but gentle, she repeated her question to the both of them. “Would you please tell me what happened? Why you two _fought_?” 

“Mam’selle, he push me—!“

“Mam’selle, she punch me—!“ 

Closing her eyes, she set both of them down carefully on separate chairs. She sat back in front of them and raised a finger before the two could continue. 

“Not. A. Word. Until one of you win one round of rock, paper, and scissors. Who wins shall speak first, is that fair enough?”

The two nodded competitively, seizing the other up as they faced each other the way toddlers only can — all toothy grins and tongues-out cheekiness. 

“On thwee!” Gilen exclaimed, huffing as he irritatedly removed his long brown locks away from his forehead. 

The tot had tantrums whenever Cosette tried to help cut his hair, and that was _Cosette_. She? Well, she had no such luck in that, save for resolving these little conflicts between the children. 

For a moment, she was reminded of someone with the same air, only rowdier and missing a tooth or three. She blinked, and a tear fell. She wiped it away quickly. 

The little girl eyed her with concern. "Mamselle?" 

She startled, turning to Elaina, and shook her head. Even the boy looked confused, fist suspended in the air. She patted both of their heads, urging them to continue. 

"Go on, old mamselle is just a bit tired." 

Elaina did not look convinced, and Éponine appreciated it, but she did not want to make the little girl worry further. Gilen patted the little girl's knee impatiently, and the children eyed each other gamely again. 

“One!” 

“Two!”

“Thwee!” 

On the last count, the boy chose a rock while the girl did paper. 

Elaina’s high-pitched screech as she won nearly burst a vein on Éponine forehead, but luckily, the dear child was not so often prone to bouts of cheekiness as Gilen was. 

“I won!” 

The little boy snorted, crossing his arms, and the sight of it made Éponine smirk as she shook her head. “All right, since Elaina won fairly, she goes first,” she nodded at her to start.

Elaina clapped her hands excitedly, the blue ribbons on her dark hair bouncing as she did. The little girl really was quite a bundle of joy whenever she was given rapt attention. 

“Mamselle, you say to say, ‘ _Pwease, may I_ ?’ when to borrow anywing. So! I did! But Gilen—,” she wrinkled her nose, “—gave me a BIG NO, so as you do, I say, ‘ _After you done?’_ but still he say NOOOO, but I don’t wan to hear it, I really wan this pwetty colour Mamselle Cosette say goes by puttin white on this pwetty wed, so I _borrow—_ ”

_“—take_ ,” little Gilen seethed, his lower lip jutting out in his pout.

“— _borrow—_ ," little Elaina rolled her eyes, going on, “the palet? And I try it! I did it! Pwetty colour! But he turn, and my hand fall, so the pwetty colour drip, drip, DRIP on da FLOOR!”

The boy sighed, also rolling his eyes. Still crossing his arms, he supplied his version of the story. “Mamselle, you say to give wen done, I wassin’ done!” 

At this point he threw his hands into the air, “I woulda give her the palet if she wait! But BIG NO. I wassin’ done with my pwane, OK? She punch me then.” 

Both of them scoffed at each other at the same time before turning away. 

Éponine nearly burst with laughter, but she was nothing if not experienced with this kind of behaviour. She schooled her mien to become neutral. Kneeling on the floor, she called their attention. The children looked at her, and she held up her hands for them to hold on to before she spoke. 

“Both of you did wrong, all right?” they gazed at her with a sour look that melted into a penitent one after an arch of her brow. 

She clasped Elaina’s hand. “My dear, there’s nothing wrong with _doing_ colours. You are very good at it, I can see that.” 

The girl gave her a big, yet uncertain smile. 

“But you need to wait when borrowing, okay? That, or you ask help from me so I can give you what you need. _No_ punching. Is that okay? You good to do that?” 

Elaina nodded, and Éponine patted her hair, something which made the girl smile even more. 

Turning to Gilen, she said, “Gav- _Gilen_ , I know that you’re also very good with your planes, and that you have good ideas with planes.” 

The boy gave her toothy grin at that, and Éponine was reminded that she needs to teach him how to brush his teeth better. 

“But you also need to know that it’s all right to share while you’re doing something, okay? _No_ pushing. You good to do that?” 

“Okay,” the boy nodded as well. 

Éponine gave them both a big smile. “All right, come here both of you, old Mamselle is going to give you a hug for being very good children.” 

The children jumped to her before she could even finish her sentence. Éponine joined their laughter, pushing the memories of her childhood away from her mind, and for the rest of the day, her heart was filled with light. 

If this was what she needed to keep doing to have peace, she could do it forever. 

Maybe it would be enough to make all the wrong in the world right.

Maybe. 

Clutching the children closer to her, a tear fell from her eye. 

* * *

“You love the children as if they were yours, Éponine.” 

The angel’s greeting was strange, but there was nothing false about it. He just took her by surprise, is all. She was brushing her hair by the window when he appeared, the gale of the evening breeze stronger in his presence. She patted the space across her for him to sit down, and he complied, his wings folding behind him. Éponine noticed that while his form only floated above the seat, the radiance of his aura felt bigger yet also somewhat lighter.

She arched a brow at him as he settled down. “They are all I look forward to.” 

Enjolras nodded, hearing this news seemed to please him. He gestured to her hair, and she stopped brushing it. He shook his head, urging her to continue. 

“They look like an auburn sea. Quite like the... afternoon sun,” he explained, his hand hovering over the one she used to brush her unruly tresses in an attempt to twirl it. His touch made it billow like little waves of fire. 

“Just before night falls.” He eyed her, a small smile playing on his lips as he removed his hand. “Blessed like light in the darkness.” 

She could not stop the rush of red blooming upon her cheeks, so she looked away, muttering her thanks. 

“What brings you here, angel?” 

Perhaps that would ease her nerves, talking. Her hand still tingled, his touch had burned sweetly. _Too sweetly_. She adjusted the grip on her brush, untangling a knot with more force. 

“To share your happiness.” 

She looked up at him then. His mien was solemn. A serious, but kind gaze present in his eyes. “Happiness is sacred.”

“Does that,” she slowly realised, a hesitant smile dancing on her lips, “...does that mean we can be friends? That I can befriend an angel?” 

“A sweet friendship refreshes the soul,” he nodded.

Éponine finished brushing her hair, and a fond curl rested on her lips. “I know what it is you’ll say.” 

At the arch of his brow, she teased, “That like happiness, friendship, _too_ , is sacred.” 

Grinning, the angel’s eyes twinkled under the light of the moon. “You know it to be true.” 

She nodded, remembering some verses Cosette spoke to her once in comfort. “I know the words as well: ‘Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.’” 

Enjolras nodded sagely as a thought occurred to her. “As you consider me with friendship, would it be all right to know more about you?” 

“If you like.” 

Éponine smiled, clapping her hands in excitement. 

"Does an angel hunger?" 

"No, not quite, and if we do, it is not what you know to be hunger. We do not eat as you do, is what I mean." 

"Then what is there to fill your being?" 

Enjolras paused in thought, his eyes hooded for a bit as he considered how best to put his answer for her. When he found an apt description, his back straightened as he looked at her. "I could perhaps say that it would be love."

Placing the brush on the table beside her, she eyed him curiously. "Hmm?" 

"Love is energy, Éponine, and when those we care and protect for are full of it, our beings, as you said, are filled. Angels are born of His will, which is Love. And with it, we are replenished." 

Éponine looked to the floor, crossing her arms. She ignored the burning sensation on her left forearm and clutched herself, thankful that her nightgowns always had long sleeves.

"But what of individuals who could only exude hatred? Who are indifferent to the plight of others?" 

The angel laid a hand atop hers, and she stopped fidgeting. "Even those who do wrong are capable of love, Éponine. This, you will understand in the end." 

She removed her hand from his. "I do not." 

The angel took a deep breath, staring at her directly. "You misunderstand His Will. When people leave this soft earth, those who do wrong face _justice_ , Éponine. But still, _like you,_ they were also of this world. As capable of hurt as they were, so too were they as capable of love as you. This is why you are all, upon conception, given favour. You are dearly loved, and that is the reason why I am here as well." 

"To bid you His glad tidings, and yes, to share your happiness as well," he supplied dryly at her unspoken question. 

She eyed him, a sigh escaping her lips. "I did tell you, the years have turned my tongue bitter." 

"I wager it has turned you bittersweet than simply bitter."

Éponine laughed, surprised with his wit. Shaking her head, she asked, "If you do not eat as we do, do you at least get curious by what we take?" 

"Well," the angel hmmed, "I have been. With this beverage you christened café. I have come across a shop once, and the aroma filled the air so thickly with a rich fragrance your people crafted with beans. I have observed that some find it too bitter and added latte or sugar." 

"You've never tasted it? At all?"

He pursed his lips, resting fingers above it as tilted his head. "I did. I would try it when the time or mission permits. There are always little shops to have it, and people are at ease and happy to talk to strangers. When that happens, I usually find a way to provide them a certain warmth to cling with them for the whole day." 

A wistful smile rested on his lips before his face turned into a more neutral mask. "But… I can only imitate the enjoyment I see, not experience it in full, as you do. 

Her eyes narrowed at him. "In effect, you're saying that what might I taste… might be bland for you?" 

"In simple terms, yes." 

She huffed in bewilderment, crossing her arms and leaning on the edge of the window behind her. Turning to him, she furrowed a brow. "Is there nothing an angel enjoys like a human?" 

"I believe I have mentioned it before." 

"Oh?" 

Then it clicked, and she could feel the mortification settle on her cheeks in spite of herself.

" _Oh._ " 

His blue eyes flickered with amusement. She took a deep breath at the sight. 

"You are quite singular, Éponine," the angel remarked. "Usually, people would ask about what is it like in heaven. That was always what they wanted to know first. That, and then sometimes, nothing else. You, however, asked about food." 

Then he moved nearer, as if he was going to tell her a secret, so she followed suit. "What a rare soul yours is," he whispered, eyeing her in earnest. 

Warmth tingled her fingertips. She stared at him, swallowing, "Thank you, angel." 

A fond curl rested on his lips.

"I had just taken my meal, so I asked." 

Their sweet laughter filled the air. 

* * *

"There's something on the télé," Cosette said. She tightened the bow of her black shift dress, shifting one foot over the other. 

Éponine raised a brow, looking up from the books that were scattered all over her desk. She was mulling over how best to teach physics to her older students. Their next topic was the chaos theory, and she wanted to see if having the class discuss the book _The Time Machine_ would suit her purposes. 

"Why not tell me about it, at least? I'm still going over my subject, and it is _not_ an easy one, this chaos theory," she scratched her chin, pushing her glasses upward as she went back to her notebook. She doesn't really have much time for amusement these past weeks because of the amount of work piling on her desk. 

" _Nine_ ," Cosette whined, pulling on her blouse. 

" _Sette_ ," she whined equally, ignoring her incessant blouse-pulling. 

"That's it!" She exclaimed, pulling Éponine's notebook from her hands. 

Scoffing, Éponine crossed her arms and glared at her. Her tone clipped, she burst, "What is so important about it, Euphraisie!?" 

"Oh _mon Dieu,_ you used that!" Cosette's eyes widened, gasping in mock-horror as she clutched the notebook to her chest.

Éponine's brows rose, gesturing wildly over her desk, as if to say, _Oh gee, I wonder why!_

"I don't see why you can't just tell me!" 

Cosette rolled her eyes, a hand on her waist. "Look, Nine, I really think you should watch it. I don't want to tell you about it because it's not for me to… just _say_ it. It's for you to _see_ it." 

She sighed in response, nodding. Cosette jumped with joy before returning her notebook and ushering her excitedly to the living room. Éponine hurried and roughly sat down on the couch, crossing her arms with a petulant pout.

"Now show me, _please_?"

Cosette nodded, fixing the cable and then standing behind the couch. 

The tv crackled for a bit before it turned grainy, and then morphed into a channel that appeared to be showing a court in session. Then the camera hovered over the screen, and Éponine let out a loud gasp. 

Encased in a glass dock with two soldiers behind, there was a man. 

A man she would recognize from anywhere. In ash-grey sky and coal-black fields, she would. In concrete labyrinths and seas of snow, she would. She would not mistake this man for any other. The flat, measured syllables, the distaste colouring his every demeanour, but most of all, the blank, determined look of his eyes that tried to hide behind horn-rimmed glasses. 

The architect of the Holocaust. 

She blinked, recalling the shiver in her mother's whispers, begging her little brothers to quiet with tales of the shadows of the long night, where their souls can get lost and taken by corpse-thin hands holding a scythe made of bones, and the swift hush before the Grim Reaper takes a soul. 

_Do not your eyes see, do not your hands touch, do not your ears hear, do not the dark invite, do not these streets find, do not your mind forget. Or else walk dark flames your soul will choose, the Grim Reaper will not lose._

She gulped, her nails sinking to her skin. Blood, blood, _blood_. Wave after wave of sorrow. 

_Eichmann_. 

"I was only _following_ orders. Merely, a cog machine, if you would, of this operation you _mistake_ me for orchestrating. I was only a cog in this killing machine! I only managed the logistics! You will see I have not killed anyone!"

The prosecutor fixed his glasses, his face a mask of disbelief. "Were you even sorry?" 

"I _am_ sorry,” his syllables unmeasured and seething with anger. “I am sorry for _one_ thing only. That I was not harder. That I wasn’t tough enough. That I didn’t fight these damn interventionists. And now you see the _result_ : the creation of the nation Israel, and the re-emergence of the race there.” 

Éponine blanked out, not hearing what Cosette, who had placed a hand on her shoulder. Her left forearm burned once again. The hairs on her skin stood, and unbeknownst to her, she was shivering. Tears were welling up on her eyes, blurring her vision as she fought to stare at the black and white screen. 

"I wasn't able to get the first day because of the classes as well, but _—_ "

Éponine stood abruptly, ignoring the look of horror and regret on Cosette’s face. 

“Nine!” 

She ran to her room and slammed the door, laying down on her bed. The story of her Maman repeating like a broken radio in her head. 

_Do not your eyes see, do not your hands touch, do not your ears hear, do not the dark invite, do not these streets find, do not your mind forget. Or else walk dark flames your soul will choose, the Grim Reaper will not lose. Do not your eyes see, do not your hands touch, do not your ears hear, do not the dark invite, do not these streets find, do not your mind forget. Or else walk dark flames your soul will choose, the Grim Reaper will not lose. Do not your eyes see, do not your hands touch, do not your ears hear, do not the dark invite, do not these streets find, do not your mind forget. Or else walk dark flames your soul will choose, the Grim Reaper will not lose. Do not your eyes see, do not your hands touch, do not your ears hear, do not the dark invite, do not these streets find, do not your mind forget. Or else walk dark flames your soul will choose, the Grim Reaper will not lose. Do not your eyes see, do not your hands touch, do not your ears hear, do not the dark invite, do not these streets find, do not your mind forget. Or else walk dark flames your soul will choose, the Grim Reaper will not_ —

Covering herself with her blanket, she clutched her pillow tightly. Her hands still shook, and across her, she saw the sun setting, slowly hiding in a blanket of coal-black clouds. _Dark flames..._

She blinked, her lips trembling, fresh tears falling once again. _No, no, no,_ her lids falling shut. Suddenly, the scent of roses filled the room, and she fell into a deep sleep. Her last thoughts, a wish for soft earth and sweet warmth, the thud of her heart rhyming with the beat of a bird’s wings in the distance. 

_Enjolras…_

A few hours later, she woke to someone gently strumming a lyre, its sweet, peaceful sound filling the room. She rubbed her eyes and felt the slight wetness on her cheeks. Ignoring it, she saw the angel floating across the foot of her bed, his hands plucking the instrument to begin a new melody. 

Calling him out, Enjolras stopped playing and greeted her, “Peace be with you.” 

Stopping the tears from falling, she shook her head. “I am not at peace, angel.” 

Settling the lyre on her desk, Enjolras descended to the floor and headed beside her bed. Éponine eyed him, lips trembling a little, unsure of what he will do next. The angel kneeled, his hand in the air between them. She reached out to him, and he covered it, radiating a gentle warmth that seemed to help her breathe more easily. 

“Is your heart at peace?” he eyed her directly, stilling her thoughts. 

It took her a while to respond, but still, she repeated. “I am not at peace.” 

“What has stirred your anger, Éponine?”

"I thought seeing Eichmann's trial would make the justice you promised definite. Another clear sign of a prayer answered, something I thought next to impossible…,” she explained before her voice broke. “A-an impossible thing. Like finding forgiveness for a man who caused so much heartache. Tore families apart. Watched babies fall to flames in the dark. Convinced rabbis to push people they served into trains, never to be seen again. And all of it done, sitting idly in the comfort of his white office, smoking tobacco with generals joking about the same hatred... towards my people.” 

It was dark, but still, moonlight flickered through the room from her window, and Éponine saw the angel’s blue eyes filling with tears. _For her._ She gasped softly, trying not to sob. 

“Enjolras,” she choked, gripping his hand, “why? Why am I not _at peace_? Why can’t I try to seek forgiveness not for the man, but for the anger that is blinding me from it?”

"You don't have to," he rose, eyes into her, cradling her head gently as he tried to stop the tears falling from her eyes. 

She shook her head. “Is that even right? Is that not against His Will?” 

Then she spat, voice shrill and fierce, “Shouldn’t I _forgive_ my enemies?” 

The angel glared at her, his grip loosening on her. “You misunderstand again.” 

Éponine sniffed, hands on his shoulder, rising from her bed to meet his level. “This is what my people _know_.” 

“What your people know and take to be true _does not_ make it a direct interpretation of His Will, Éponine.” 

She neared him, gripping his coat, seething as his hands fell to her waist. “Then ‘enlighten’ me, _angel_.” 

Scoffing, he moved closer, almost a breath away from her lips as he eyed her angrily, all gentleness fading. Éponine shivered a little, but she could not find it in herself to care. Eighteen years of bitterness hiding in a dam inside her breaking at the wrath of an angel. So this was what he was like, a charming angel also capable of being terrible. 

“Forgiveness isn’t a coin you pay to receive peace, Éponine. _This,_ you must understand. Neither can you find forgiveness in the bottom of a bottle. Nor is it given from the shadow of a speeding bullet. Nor read it in a thousand-aged manuscript you recite in your temples. These are only guides. Because forgiveness, like love, is an energy. It is free, but not simply owed to anyone who does you kindness. It is a commitment. You need not forgive, if you cannot. Only that you seek peace for yourself, above all else.” 

“That peace sounds selfish, angel.” 

The angel gazed at her, his blue eyes intense with anger. “Your mockery is what _is_ selfish.” 

Éponine smirked, his stare drawing her closer. “Then _enlighten_ me again, angel.” 

He huffed in frustration as his hands gripped her waist tightly. The angel seemed unaware of his actions. Her back tingled with warmth, his touch making her lids heavy. Her hands circled his neck. 

“It’s as simple as this: if you cannot forgive, don’t. If you forgive falsely, you make a hypocrite of yourself.” 

“Then why do they not teach this? Why force us to believe that we must forgive first, find peace later?” 

Enjolras looked down briefly before eyeing her again. “There is a certain stubbornness in your people. Like how you are being incorrigible now.” 

Her lips parted, aghast. His eyes followed the movement. She noticed a faint blush on his cheeks before he gazed away. She furrowed her brows. 

“I, incorrigible? Who really _is_ incorrigible for not helping us set the record straight?” she found herself sparring, sensing amusement in his sigh. 

“You misunderstand—” 

“— _His Will_ ? No, I don’t think so. First, you must answer my question. Then explain how differently it really is, this _shared incorrigibility_ , angel.” 

He arched a lofty brow before rolling his eyes. “The simplest answer is this: the enemies of your people exterminated those who could tell this truth. And the explanation? The truth about forgiveness has come to be misconstrued, a hundred leaders misinterpreting the Will, and what follows? A thousand, _no_ , a million followers having the wrong idea and mis-acting the truth.” 

“Mis-acting… hmm,” Éponine murmured, closing her eyes. “What a very apt description.” 

The angel heaved, resting his forehead on top of hers as he lifted a finger to caress her cheek. “Éponine, may I now ask you?” 

“Hmm?” She could not help but purr against his ministrations. 

“Is your heart at peace?” 

Her eyes opened, meeting his frank stare as her lips fell apart. She swallowed. He was really breathtaking, this angel. 

Mentally shaking her head, she took a deep breath, and thought hard. She could not lie that there was still too much… _fierce anger_ bubbling within her, but for the most part, his presence and words had really shifted her emotions into something gentler, softer... than whatever blind hatred and sorrow that had consumed her earlier. 

Right now, she simply… _was_. But if that should be considered peace, she did not know. 

“Enjolras?” The angel eyed her, his mouth etched with a patient curl. 

She blinked, a tear falling. To her surprise, he pressed a soft kiss to it, making her still her movements. When he moved away from her, her brows furrowed in confusion. 

“Is your heart at peace?” he repeated. 

She opened her mouth to speak. “I-I, uh,” she uttered blindly, grasping for whatever she was supposed to say before he… _literally_ kissed her tears away. _I-is that what angels do?_

The angel cradled her head, his gaze soft upon her. 

Then she remembered herself, and a rebellious air filling her veins, she replied, “... _no_.” 

Enjolras sighed, rolling his eyes before quickly kissing her forehead. Her lids suddenly became heavy, and she was struggling to keep her hands on him. He disentangled from her, laying her head gently on the pillow. 

“Angel?” she tried to muster, but even to her, her words sound slurred, near-slumber. 

“Peace be with you, Éponine.”

And once again, she fell into a deep sleep. 

* * *

Months passed by idly, and Éponine could almost find herself to be content with its simplicity if it meant that she could not think about the war taking her family and Eichmann finally meeting his fate. The latter, she excelled in suppressing. The former, not much so. But she was determined not to, and did so by busying herself. If it meant that all she does, aside from continue teaching the younger children in the orphanage, was to care for the house as well in order to do good, then that was surely convenient for her. 

Until today. 

Today required quite a different sort of unraveling. 

"Nine?” Cosette sought her attention after her last class of the day. She tightened the bow in her white shift dress, alerting Éponine to the concern that she was still probably uneasy for startling Éponine with the trial, but they had already talked about it and forgave each other, so something was… well, afoot. She eyed her more carefully and realised that Cosette hadn’t shifted her feet yet, so it mustn’t be about what she did before. 

She raised a brow, erasing the remaining chalk from the board. “What is it?” 

“Father says he’d like to discuss something with you.” Cosette gestured to the floor above them. “I’ll finish the cleaning for you, I’m done with my room.”

Nodding her thanks, she removed the kerchief in her hair to remove dust from her hand before heading towards the second floor of the orphanage. She tied her hair up again before knocking. 

At her entrance, Monsieur Fauchelevent gestured for her to sit across him. 

“Monsieur, what did you need to discuss?” 

“I shall come to that in a bit, Éponine. Before that, may I ask what would your plans be now that you’ve come of age?” 

Startled by his question, Éponine furrowed her brows before realising that the question was asked in earnest. Most times, it was just hard to see that Monsieur Fauchelevent was this indulging of a conversation. It was an improvement, though, since he was not known to have spoken much after being sent to war. She attributed this to Cosette, who was the only one who could bring such tenderness from her father. 

“At the moment, I am content to keep teaching the younger ones here. But if I look towards the future, I should like to eventually open a bigger school, especially when the children get older. We can get more students to join from the community. Maybe, it could even be a boarding school, if it goes better. Then when I have enough money, perhaps I’d like to have a bakery. I still remember my mother’s recipes, from when we had a restaurant that my father, for some reason, still fashioned after Napoleon.” 

Realising she may have spoken at length already, she stopped and gave a nervous smile. She had almost forgotten about her father’s brief stint as a legitimate entrepreneur, and that he used to call the place The Sergeant of Waterloo. 

Monsieur Fauchelevent returned it with a patient grin, calling her attention. “That is a very good picture of the future, Éponine. I believe in this picture, and it is for this reason that I have called you here. In a few months, Cosette is going to Toulouse to start her school there. We have talked at length about it, and we decided to impart this orphanage as well as a considerable sum to help you improve it.” 

Éponine rose, and bowed deeply. “Oh, good sir, you do me _great_ kindness! Before today, I was just an orphan, bereft, and uncertain. Today, you provide me so much happiness I do not know how to give back! Thank you _so much,_ Monsieur, for trusting me with the orphanage!” 

The old man strode towards her and patted her shoulder. “You have been a steadfast teacher, a most admirable colleague, but most of all, a very hardworking member of the orphanage.” 

She was getting teary-eyed when the patriarch continued, “Éponine, I wish for you to know that… maybe you are not of my blood, but I consider you not just a friend, but a daughter to me and sister to Cosette as well.”

“I know that you turned down any possible parent who wanted to adopt you because there can only be one family to you,” Monsieur Fauchelevent said, welcoming her with an embrace, “...but _you are family_ to us.” 

Éponine choked back a sob, trying to contain herself until the old man patted her head. 

“Thank you, really, Mons- _father,_ ” she replied, her voice breaking with tears. “I will do my very best for the orphanage.”

“I know you will,” Monsieur Fauchelevent assured, letting her break away. “Now, go for a walk with Cosette, if you like.” 

Éponine wiped her cheeks first before leaving the room. At her exit, Cosette squealed and attacked her with a hug. “Nine!” 

She was not about to cry again from happiness, so she just hugged her back, and offered that they walk around for leisure. 

“My, my, leisure? I did not know that existed in your book, Éponine!” she laughed, pocketing her purse. 

Éponine rolled her eyes in good humour, wiping her face. “Aha! There’s lots of things I know!”

They reached the jardin du Luxembourg uttering folk songs and town gossip in a flurry of whimsical exchanges. Éponine was making an impression of a cat singing _Ça ira_ when Cosette suddenly quieted, a demure look falling upon her visage. 

She arched her brows, following her line of sight until she found her gaze fixated upon a young man, more or less around their age, staring back at her sister. Éponine was able to hide her gulp as well at the sight of the youth. 

The young man, in summary, was handsome. Genteel from the looks of his freckled face and dark hair styled quite gentlemanly. Tall, too, it appears from the way his gangly legs did not appear to fit within the polite length deemed for most people to have. His green eyes were bright, its brilliance highlighted by the lamps burning softly above him, and his lips curled into a smile. 

Éponine thought he was smiling at her until Cosette stood at the same time he did and they strode towards each other in frank admiration. She would’ve chuckled in fondness if she didn’t feel a small stab of envy at the sight. 

Because of course, if anyone were to have everything at her fingertips, it would be Cosette. It was always Cosette. Éponine wouldn’t dare to say that she was unmarred by war because too many nights have gone when her sister would come crying to her bed because she thought someone was still lurking outside the orphanage. They have shared too many sorrows to allow for a brief moment of folly to tear them apart. 

It’s just that… Éponine rationalised, finally, that _she_ had always been full of warmth and light. Her gaiety was easy to recognize with the sound of her voice, and most people are caught awestruck at the blossom of her red cheeks and cornflower eyes. Not to mention, her kindness for everyone flowed naturally. That’s why it was so easy to love and be fond of Cosette. 

And she? Well, it took a lot before the kids even gravitated towards her. It wasn’t really their fault, to be honest. It was mostly her being afraid of being attached to anyone again after… after it all. It didn’t help that, back then, when she was still new to the orphanage, she had nearly lost all her hair and her figure was corpse-thin. 

_Weepy waif,_ a bully from the orphanage used to taunt her. _Weepy waif, why wallow and weep? Weepy waif, why weave and wail? Weep, weepy, weepy, waif!_

Éponine remembered when she cried on the lap of old matron of the orphanage, Madame Toussaint. The madame had patted her hair gently, hushing her tears as she explained why the kids were ‘ _so mean-spirited, probably even worse than those who jailed them once_ ’. Madame said that the kids simply ‘ _did not know better_ ’, and Éponine, young as she was and tough-tongued, spat back, ‘ _Then make them know better!_ ’ 

She shook her head, taking a long, deep breath. She focused on Cosette… her _sister_. Perhaps, it will take a while for this envy to subside because she suspects it’s mostly borne out of losing everything she ever had while Cosette still had family. 

She fixed her stare on something else instead while her sister talked with the young man. She found a bush of white roses, and plucked one, careful not to prick her finger from a thorn. Succeeding, Éponine sighed as she eyed it with a frown. 

Caressing its soft petals, she thought of the angel Enjolras once again. Would it be fair to pray that he visit later? It has been a while, and she could still recall the softness of his lips and the frustration in his voice as she sparred with him. Perhaps, he’d like to know of the new things that has come to happen in her life? Would an angel even care to know these, if they might already have news of it? Is that allowed? She hasn’t driven him away, has she? _Perhaps, I had—_

Her musings were cut abruptly short when Cosette called her name. 

“Nine! This is Marius Pontmercy! He’s studying law at the Sorbonne, and knows other languages. I asked if he could teach me Spanish, and he agreed! Is that not very thoughtful of him?” 

_Pontmercy._ That was his surname. She was careful not to narrow her eyes, remembering her father used to tell her a story of someone he helped bring home from the first world war, back in Verdun. Was it even true, though? And was this instance just coincidence? 

“That is very thoughtful. Nice to meet you, Monsieur Pontmercy,” she managed to say with all the politeness she could muster. Because inside her head, all she wanted to say was, _Did you know my father saved your father? Lucky you, right? Your father returned to your arms safely in the first war, while mine perished in the next one, and I could no longer recall his face. Lucky me, right?_

“Nice to meet you as well,” Marius bowed a bit. “Your name, Nine? Is that German, as in, for the number nine?” 

Cosette’s eyes widened at Éponine, who arched a brow, and hurriedly explained to him, “Ah, no, Marius, it is short for Éponine.” 

Éponine took a deep breath, grateful for the quick intervention. 

“Ah, from the romance of _Epponina et Sabinus_ ,” nodding, he turned to her sister. “Would you like to meet here for the first lesson next week?” 

Cosette’s smile was unabashed, her hands fidgeting behind her back. “I would like that very much. Is Wednesday fortuitous enough for you?” 

“Yes, that would be all right. This time as well?” 

“Definitely!” 

Then Marius swooped her hand and laid a gentle kiss upon her knuckles. “See you Wednesday.” 

“See you Wednesday, Monsieur Marius.” 

“And you as well, Madame Cosette.” 

“Mademoiselle will do!” 

With that, Marius bowed and bid them goodbye. 

When they were out of earshot, Éponine caught her sister’s hand and lightly patted her head. “Sette, too _forward!_ ” 

Cosette laughed, flicking her dark curls with a wave of her hand. “Too true! But _what a man_ , don’t you think?” 

Éponine rolled her eyes, but smiled at her sister. Again, it was too difficult to not love the warm-heartedness of Cosette. “I’m quite jealous, if I do say so myself.” 

Her sister froze, and turned to her in worry. “Éponine? Do you fancy him as well?” 

She arched a brow, trying not to get irritated. “Of course, I do! He’s a handsome man, and a talented one, as you said!” she replied in not too perfect sarcasm. 

Her sister pouted, a bit at a loss for words. “I, uh, I see.” 

The dejection in her tone was enough to humiliate Éponine for feeling envious and voicing it out. Cosette’s hand suddenly loosened on her. 

Éponine sighed and forced both of them to stop, hands on Sette’s shoulders. “You are _my sister_ , and your happiness matters to me. I am sorry I spoke the truth that I found him handsome as well, but I want you to understand that it does not mean that I will try to get him from you. You are family, and you are too important for me to lose over someone like him.” 

The placid mien of Cosette broke into a mess of tears before she hugged Éponine tightly. “I think it is _I_ who should ask your forgiveness, Éponine. I was too caught up on Marius that I failed to consider your feelings. I am very, very sorry.” 

Wiping her face for the second time that day, she swallowed her anger and took a deep breath. 

_When I had no one, only the Fauchelevents welcomed me. The rest turned me away,_ she thought, hugging Cosette tightly. She recalled Monsieur Fauchelevent’s words earlier that day. 

_You are family to us._

Taking a deep breath, she wiped her face again. “We’re sisters, Sette, now and always.” 

Her sister’s smile returned. 

Éponine smiled back, and they continued to walk. On their way, she found herself turning to Sette once again, and whispered, "Listen, I have a secret." 

Cosette brightened, clapping her hands. “Do you have a beau???” 

“W-wha— _no_!” Éponine burst, red lining her cheeks as she hit Sette playfully on the shoulder. 

Sette rubbed her offended shoulder mockingly. “ _Aw_ , why’d you hurt me so! But am I right? _Do you_ , or do you not have a beau?” 

“No, it’s not that, but before I tell you, you must swear secrecy, please!” 

She lifted a finger, wagging it in the air. “Pinky!” 

Éponine rolled her eyes, laughing as she joined their pinkies. She sobered though, and Cosette followed suit, suddenly serious as well. 

“So, what’s the secret?” 

“I may or may not have _serious_ feelings for an angel, who visited me a few months back,” she uttered quickly. 

Cosette gasped, pinky staying. “Oh my! You lie!” 

Éponine gasped as well, hitting her playfully with her other hand. “A lady would _never_!” 

“Seriously?” 

“Seriously.” 

Cosette nodded, smiling. “How did it happen? _Please_ do tell.” 

“A lady will tell,” she answered, both of them curtseying. 

Éponine then launched into a brief account of what happened over how the angel called Enjolras appeared to her as a thousand lights before transforming into a man and promised her justice and peace. Of how the angel laughed with her, amused with her queries and fond of her love for the little Gilen and Elaina. Of how the angel played his lute for her the day Cosette showed her the trial on the télé, and then, finally, of how they fought briefly. And how he pressed soft kisses to dry the tears on her cheeks. 

Her sister listened attentively, captivated by the vividness of her tale. When she was done, Cosette hmmed, her chin resting on a finger. They had stopped briefly at the Musain, a coffee shop a few blocks away from the orphanage. 

Éponine put down her cup, tracing the outline of roses on it. A fond smile resting on her lips, she looked up at Cosette. “He’s also fascinated by coffee, except he doesn’t really taste it like we do.” 

“Hmm,” her sister murmured. 

She arched a brow, curious what Cosette was thinking about. “So what do you make of it?” 

“I think he reciprocates your feelings,” Cosette replied after a while. Then she leaned in, raising her pinky. 

“I too have a secret to share.” 

Éponine nodded, joining their pinkies once again. 

“I’ve always wondered whether it was true… but my mother, in her diaries, the one you found, she spoke of my biological father somewhat similarly. Like a 'burst of light', she wrote of him.” 

“Literally?” 

“ _Literally_ ,” Cosette assented, her blue eyes serious. “Not as a metaphor like we have in the songs, but _yes_ , literally. I would have doubted her claims, if it weren’t for the next pages in it, where she said that he made her feel lighter, warmer, like your angel did.” 

Éponine’s eyes widened, realising the full implications of her account. “Then that can only mean that… you’re _half angel_?” 

Cosette tilted her head, a bit unsure. “I guess?” 

It was Éponine’s turn to place her chin atop a finger, pondering and remembering her earlier thoughts about Cosette. The lightness, the warmth, the kindness. She nodded decisively. “No, no, that makes _a lot_ of sense.” 

Cosette teared up a bit. “And you know what else? My last doubts were dashed once I saw a nearly translucent feather on the last page. I hastened to show it to _father_ , and he looked at it, a bit confused, saying he only saw a piece of string where I saw a feather.” 

Éponine gasped. “Holy—” 

Sette nodded unironically. “Yes, it was utterly, most definitely, absolutely _holy shit_.” 

“A lady would _never_!” 

“A lady would not,” Cosette laughed, rolling her eyes as she finally released their pinkies, “but a half angel _would_.” 

“Oh, you—well, _fine,_ ” Éponine laughed, conceding. Then she fidgeted, fingers tracing the roses on the cup once again. “Do you think Enjolras means to meet me again?” 

“My dearest Nine, my angel-father left my mother after she revealed that she was pregnant, and yours keeps returning to you, comforting you with soft music and kisses and is unafraid of your tenacity,” Cosette assured, tapping her hand. “You _will_ see him again. Just watch out for certain signs of his.”

“What kind of signs?” 

“Mostly something connected with nature, I should think. My mother said that before Felix arrived, the room would become warmer, and smell of a distinct flower. Probably a rose, if I were to go by her diary. She said she knew Felix was going to be there soon if an orange rose suddenly appeared nearby.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Hmm?” Cosette asked curiously. “That sounds like a _hmm, that’s familiar_.” 

Éponine smiled before rising and beckoned her sister to do the same, and they left the Musain. 

“A white rose.” 

Cosette gasped, hitting her shoulder playfully. “Sounds serious to me.” 

“I do hope so,” she replied, pensive. Her eyes perceived the outline of the black gates that was their entrance before the garage of the orphanage. Almost there, almost home. 

She smiled until she remembered something. “How about Marius, Sette?” 

A sad curve settled on Cosette’s visage. “This is not funny, Nine, but I think I love him. And if he is truly meant for me, then there shall be a way for us to find each other again.”

Éponine arched a brow at her. 

“I will tell him about Toulouse, of course, and see how he should take to it.” 

“How serious is this, Sette?” 

“I know you think it too fortuitous, Nine,” Cosette eyed her briefly before holding a hand to her heart. “But this is more than love at first sight. I looked at him, and I knew.”

Éponine was a bit sceptical, but given how things unfolded today? Anything was possible. 

“A lady would not,” she repeated Cosette’s words, turning to her, “but a half angel _certainly would_.” 

Cosette smiled, her eyes to the starlit sky, musing. 

“Marius and I? We’ll find each other again, I’m sure of it.” 

They reached the gate to the orphanage. 

_Family_ , Éponine nodded, eyeing it fondly.

For a moment, all the world was soft and warm. 

And her heart was full of light. 

* * *

“I was wondering when you would return, angel.” 

She was holding the rose on her lap, eyes closed as she welcomed the breeze enter her room. Blood dripped from her fingers, staining the pristine folds of her nightgown. She felt warmth tingle her hands. 

Opening her eyes, she saw the angel float in front of her as he healed her hands. She touched his hand. “Please don’t.” 

Perplexed, Enjolras asked, “Why let these wounds stay?” 

A tear fell from her eye, unreckoned. “I wound to heal.” 

“If you wanted eglantines, you need not look farther than the garden you visited a few afternoons ago with your sister,” he answered. 

For some reason, that made her weep even more. 

Enjolras moved closer, and wiped her tears away with a hand. Before he could remove it, she clasped it gently and pressed a kiss on his knuckles. The angel arched a brow when she turned her face away in shame. 

“You are very warm.” The heat of his touch lingered on her cheeks and lips. 

The angel sat across her by the window. “Then why do you turn away? What aggrieves you, Éponine?” 

She released a long, drawn out breath. 

“I have said this before to Monsieur Fauchelevent. A few days ago, I believed I was nothing. No family, no inheritance, no passion. Then a few days ago, the Fauchelevents gave it all to me. I am so, so lucky. For once, I have not felt more peaceful than I have in years. Never has any day moved me to feel _so much contentment_. I believe you better now that these things have come true. It’s just… I think I do not deserve all of these.” 

He gazed at her directly, and Éponine could not look away. Her lips parted at the sight of the moon’s glow shining on his curls. A soft breeze passed by, and the waves of his hair flowed, becoming a golden sea. The sun of the morning. The dawn, and the light after darkness. She felt her fingertips tingle with a heady desire. 

“But,” his voice, low, sounding almost like a purr, “there _is_ something else, is there not?” 

Her lids fell, and she took that moment to compose herself. “There is. There’s always something. There has never been _just nothing_.”

She held the rose more tightly, uncaring of the fresh blood pouring from her fingertips. _Release_. That’s all she wanted at the moment. 

“I was not too old, but not too young when they came and took us all to the camp. So I recall a lot of things,” her voice growing softer, but she held the rose more tightly again. 

“But I mostly remember snow. Or at least I thought it was snow at first. It covered the vast expanse of the camp, hiding away the dirt of the earth, and to a child, it would’ve probably been winter wonderland.” 

She paused a bit to hum the first verse under her breath before choking up and covering her mouth to stop her sobs from coming out. 

“—but no, _no,_ underneath that vast nothingness covered by a white sea, there was a river of blood. Blood everywhere. _Old_ , muddied, dirtied blood. The red paint of a thousand countless others seeping under my boots when rain came, and there was no snow to cover it like a blanket. Maman told me not to think of it too much, but my little sister, ‘Zelma, she could not stand the sight of it, she never can, and she never has. So what I did—”

Enjolras cradled her cheek gently, and she blinked. 

Taking a deep breath, she did not realise that she was sinking on her seat, and that she was curled into a ball, into herself, into hiding. She wiped her face, never mind the blood that left messy, crazed imprints upon her cheeks. 

“—I did what I did when we had nothing, I gave her life in my silly stories because I was a silly girl, and what did I really know of truth, then? She was only two years behind me, you see, but her body, it was frail, and she needed help. So to give her mind reprieve, I, uh, I told her that we were on a land that used to have a lot of sweet grapes and strawberries, the things she missed the most when we were there. I told her it needed pressing on the soft earth for them to become the juice she liked to drink during breakfast, the ones Maman used to make.”

The angel wiped her tears away again, but she could not give much attention to it. Her heart hurt too much that she could not stop the sobs.

"You were only twelve," he said sotto voce. She wailed, shaking her head. 

“S-so little ‘Zelma smiled, and she gave me hugs every time she did. The little ones followed too, even when they did not know why she was hugging me, or why I was crying when they did it. I only said that I was too happy because I love them so much my heart feels like it could burst open! And they laughed, and laughed and laughed, but I made sure that they could only do that when there were no guards in patrol.” 

Enjolras removed the rose from her hand and laid it to rest on the floor. He clasped her hands and healed it. She did not remove her hands from him this time. 

The angel let her be in her silence, before encouraging her to start again. “What happened then?” 

“She got sick, and all of them followed. Only my father and I remained because we were able enough not to catch it. The doctors took them, and from the chamber, I once again saw snow. _Snow,_ that’s what I kept telling myself. All these years, _snow._ Snow, even when, at last, I was all alone when they, too, took my father away for his attempts to escape with other men who styled themselves as ‘Patron-Minette’. I was supposed to go too, but I hid in the shadows when I heard the hounds prowling nearby. I threw a stone with a message using my blood because I had nothing else. I had cut my skin with the shards of a broken vase I stole from a general's house I had to clean. But it was too late. _I_ was too late. They were shot, all of them, but I got away because I ran fast and far away. Back to the little hole to my cage. I thought it was too late. But I got away.”

Éponine gasped loudly, the tremors of her cries too great for her body to contain. Her eyes hurt from crying. She was crying too much. Her face was wet, and her dress was now marred with blood and snot. Just like how it was when she was there. She wiped herself with the edge of her sleeves. 

“So, Enjolras, I _wound_ ,” she whispered, opening her eyes. She was sure it was all red, red, _red_. But still, she carried on. “Because I wish to _heal._ ”

“And when I stopped believing all the lies I told myself and my siblings all those years, that snow was just ashes from the sky, that the ashes were burnt flesh of people I knew, that the people I knew no longer _was_ , only _then_ that I knew what the truth was.” 

The angel’s wings paused as he turned pensive, concerned. His fingers threaded the waves of her hair. “What was this truth?” 

Éponine wiped her face again, the tears would not stop now that they have come. 

“That…,” she sobbed loudly, “our truths rely on the fiction of our feelings.” 

She shrugged, unsure of herself, but Enjolras shhed her, urging her to continue. 

“Of course, I would not presume this to be universal, but it was all I had. Imagination, hope, love. All these things, I fantasised when I was alone, staring at the moonless sky. There were no stars, I was sure they made sure of it, so I forced myself to think that the glow of lamps were stars. That the torches were the summer sun of my childhood. That the blood-soaked streets were strawberry fields. That maybe, I was still living in Montreuil, cooking with maman in the restaurant, in my dreams. That I was climbing trees, soaring to the zenith as eagles do, 'Zelma teasing me for having monkey limbs because I was agile. That I walked the silver streets, running with little Gavroche and the petits in laughter. That, maybe, one day, I could hold hands with someone, and our romance written to the stars. If I didn’t have this, I don’t know what I would’ve done. Or where I would’ve been. If I would even be here, talking to you, an angel. But how much I wanted to believe, and I cannot believe it, but I still _do_!” 

“Éponine,” he implored, “please, open your eyes.” 

And so she did. 

The angel held her face in his hands, and her heart skipped a beat. His blue eyes held her gaze before he closed his. He nudged her nose with his, caressing the bridge of it with a press of his lips. Then he pressed another on each of her cheeks against the fall of her tears. His hands wiped her face with care, and he kissed her forehead with such reverence. 

Then he moved to rest his forehead against hers, eyes still closed. “Is your heart at peace?” 

Her lids had fallen shut against his kisses on her skin. She was warm all over, and his touch had stirred her afire. All this, and still without a kiss on her lips. She wondered what would happen then, so it took her awhile to reply. To tell him another truth. 

“No,” she said, gasping softly as his lips found her jaw. “It is at war.” 

She felt the flicker of his lashes before she opened her eyes at the same time he did. His mouth was only a breath away from hers. She swallowed. The furrow of his brow, the earnest mouth, and the blue, blue eyes that were staring back at hers — how could she still be alive? 

“I am dead.” This, he whispered with a faint curl on his lips. 

“No.” 

“No?” 

She reached for his face, her lids falling shut. His lips met hers before she even did. She opened her mouth and welcomed his tongue. Her fingers tightened through his curls when he kissed her deeply against the edge of her window. She could not stop kissing him again and again, and it appeared that he was having a hard time going away as well by the way he clutched her waist. 

She broke for a bit to breathe, and before she could second-guess it, kissed him again. He welcomed her mouth, his hands enveloping her back. Enjolras bit her lower lip, and she gasped. He kissed her firmly, caressing her neck with a finger until they slowed down gently. He pressed his mouth on her neck softly before moving back to her lips. She noticed that whenever he would try to move away from her mouth, he would always return there when she massaged the nape of his neck. 

They have turned to more gentle caresses, kissing each other only after they stare into each other deeply. She could not seem to stop, seeing the plushness of his full mouth. She was drawn towards it, and so was he with hers. His wings have ensconced them both now in the flurry of their kisses, and more so, it appeared, when he grasped her face again and placed soft, light kisses on her eyelids, cheeks, and jaw again and again. They sighed together. She placed her forehead against his. 

He held her face again, eyes closed like hers. This time, she held his face in her hands as well. 

And again, he asked, “Is your heart at peace?” 

Éponine could not stop the fond curl on her lips. 

“Yes. My heart is at peace,” she whispered, soft and haunting and warm against his mouth. “And Enjolras, ease your fears." 

She kissed him. "You are alive.” 

His lips unfurled into the softest smile. 

* * *

_...and I am his._

Song of Solomon 2:16

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a number of reasons, one of them being inspired by Mihaly von Zichy's painting, Romantic Encounters, yes. 
> 
> But I also wrote it out of anger. Anger at the way the world was and is shaping to be in the future. Anger at the hatred spiking towards people of minority, especially jews. Anger at the way people are in denial, some wishing hurt and some acting on this hurt upon others. 
> 
> That's it, really, I'm angry.
> 
> -
> 
> Some parts here were directly lifted from Eichmann's trial, clips of which can be found in YouTube, but I had to synthesise it and shorten it to keep pace and explore more how the Holocaust has affected people, especially the children who survived it. Several films have been made regarding the organiser of the final solution (sometimes, some people use the architect of the final solution about Eichmann, though it is largely attributed to Heinrich Himmler), but Netlix recently released one starring Oscar Isaac and Ben Kinglsey, it's called "Operation Finale". This fic was also inspired by it. 
> 
> -
> 
> If you want to know more about the trial, a brief overview can be found here: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2920791/Monster-wished-10-million-Jews-murdered-week-s-TV-drama-Eichmann-s-trial-new-book-reveals-horror-man-claimed-just-small-cog-Nazi-machine.html
> 
> Clips of the trial, again, are also in YouTube, but I chose this particular one mostly for research and reference for this fic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QaN7DR8Zj5o&t=1804s
> 
> -
> 
> On a lighter note, here are where I got some verses that Enjolras and Éponine uttered: 
> 
> Proverbs 27:9 A sweet friendship refreshes the soul. 
> 
> John 15:13 Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.
> 
> Matthew 5:3: Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
> 
> -
> 
> Certain things, like the habits and attitudes of angels I described here are definitely just head canons. Things I like to think could probably be true. 
> 
> But some things, like sensing an angel's presence, I researched about, came from these sources: 
> 
> https://www.amazon.com/Everything-Guide-Angels-Discover-healing/dp/1605501212/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1337181347&sr=1-1&tag=learnreligions-20
> 
> https://www.philippinesinsider.com/myths-folklore-superstition/a-philippine-tale-on-angels/
> 
> I also largely based Enjolras from the archangel Gabriel so: http://www.archangels-and-angels.com/aa_pages/correspondences/angel_planet/archangel_gabriel.html
> 
> -
> 
> On the language of flowers: 
> 
> lily of the valley = "return of happiness" 
> 
> eglantine = "i wound to heal"; "poetry"
> 
> orange rose = "passion, excitement, desire" 
> 
> white rose = "purity"; usually present in weddings
> 
> -
> 
> I cannot believe it, but I recently found the song that perfectly encapsulates this fic. It's called Angels, and it originally was by Robbie Williams, but I decided to pick Gabrielle Aplin's cover instead: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UOARndaP56I
> 
> It's because of the following lyrics: 
> 
> I sit and wait  
> Does an angel contemplate my fate  
> And do they know  
> The places where we go  
> When we're grey and old  
> 'cos I have been told  
> That salvation lets their wings unfold  
> So when I'm lying in my bed  
> Thoughts running through my head  
> And I feel that love is dead  
> I'm loving angels instead
> 
> -
> 
> Also, if you're wondering what Enjolras was playing with his lute when he was comforting Éponine, I found this one piece called "The Lyre of Megiddo" by Peter Pringle. He re-created (technically, more like, hypothesised) the lyre (or kinnor) that was probably used during King David's time. It's awesome, and here's the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27opcKxcg1c


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